


Insight

by uumuu



Series: Canon Beyond Canon [10]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, Anger, Gap Filler, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 14:38:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14114508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: Maedhros and Maglor hear of Fingolfin's death.





	Insight

Elthedir elbowed his way through the other officers crowding Maedhros's tent. Even on the rare occasions when Maedhros actually sat down to eat something, he didn't stop listening to reports, devising strategies and trying to assuage fears. Their situation had improved, but orcs still swarmed Dorthonion and Maglor knew his brother would not rest until the orcs had all been killed and the passes were safe again.

“My Lord,” Elthedir began when he stood where Maedhros could see him.

Maglor's gaze went to the crumpled roll of parchment in his right hand. Elthedir was clutching it so tight in fact his knuckles were white, and the fine parchment of Hithlum could have passed for an old over-used rag. His eyes were wide and anxious when he cast a quick glance in Maglor's direction. 

Maedhros nodded for him to speak, without looking up from his meal. As his second in command, Elthedir had his complete trust, and they had become so close over the centuries they often did without formalities altogether.

“A message from the Lord Fingon has just arrived,” Elthedir said, nearly stumbling on the words.

“And?” Maedhros urged between mouthfuls, a hopeful edge to his voice.

That made Elthedir visibly cringe. He took a deep breath. “He says...his father is dead.”

“What?” Maedhros's head shot up. Maglor himself stood straighter. “I thought the western front had not been too affected by the current attack. Has Morgoth launched yet another attack there?”

Maedhros set his spoon down, wiped his mouth, and reached for his weapons. 

“No, my Lord. The missive says Fingolfin chose to...ride to Angband, alone.”

Maedhros stilled. There was complete silence. The lively murmurs that had been sparked by the announcement of Fingolfin's death completely died out. Even old Rómelindë, who had looked pleased by the news, frowned. 

“Is this a jest?” 

“I would never, my Lord,” Elthedir said, pleadingly, looking by then like he himself would have rather been riding towards Anbgand than continuing that conversation.

Maedhros gripped the table with his hand. He was trembling. Ever since the attack had started, he had been on the battlefield day in day out, sleeping no more than was absolutely necessary for him not to collapse. He had seen countless of his men die. He had visited the sickbeds of countless wounded. He had been making plans too, to set up a new defensive strategy with Fingolfin and his side of the front. And through all that there had been no news of Celegorm and Curufin. They still had no idea what had become of their brothers, and Maglor knew that Maedhros's truest instinct would have been to drop everything and go look for them. 

“Why would Fingolfin ride to his death?” Maedhros asked, in a voice low and steely that didn't sound like his voice.

Elthedir looked at his own feet, unable to hold his gaze anymore.

“Apparently, he did so in despair, and anger.”

“Despair?” Maedhros echoed, scathing. His voice sounded like venom. His grip on the table became convulsive. 

Maglor braced himself. 

The little table abruptly went flying, the bowl and cup that had been on it crashing on the floor and breaking with the force with which Maedhros had flung them from himself. The throng of officers gave a collective start. Maedhros sprang to his feet and they almost all took a step back. 

“I did not give him the crown for that!” he yelled.

“...he -...he wounded Morgoth seven times.” 

Maedhros took a step forward and planted himself in front of Elthedir. “And is Morgoth dead?”

“No, my Lord.” 

“Then he could have wounded him a hundred times, or a thousand, it makes no difference! None! None, you hear me?”

Elthedir bowed his head, looking absolutely mortified.

Maedhros spun around and tried to grab the stool too, but it was too low for him to reach without bending down all the way. He started pacing the tent like a caged animal. 

“Leave us,” Maglor ordered.

The officers all looked relieved to do so and clustered at the tent-flap, except Rómelindë, who waited until the others had all left. She hadn't looked as satisfied as she now did in centuries. Maglor had forgotten she could look like that.

“High King!” she said slowly, bowing low. 

If Maedhros heard her, it didn't make him any less furious. He kicked the table and crushed the ruined cutlery under his feet as he stomped from one end of the tent to the other, muttering _'I did not give him the crown for that'_ over and over. Maglor let him do. He understood why the news would enrage Maedhros so. Surrendering the kingship had been a sacrifice, and Fingolfin went and trampled on it.

Finally, Maedhros sat down again. The stool was a man-made thing, and it disappeared under him, giving the impression that he was weirdly floating in the middle of the tent. When his breathing calmed down too, Maglor cleared his throat and gave a low chuckle. Maedhros turned to him, still trembling with rage, all fire and thwarted purpose like their father. 

“What, Cáno?”

Maglor couldn't hold back a smirk at the nickname. He walked over to Maedhros and grasped his arms, but Maedhros wouldn't budge.

“...I was thinking that Father may have had more insight than he is usually given credit for.” 

He raised both eyebrows, and his smug expression didn't fail to get the reaction he wanted. The ghost of a smile pulled at Maedhros's mouth despite his anger, and he let himself be drawn up, even as he shook his head. Maglor straightened the clasp keeping his mantle in place, a large red diamond framed by silver that had belonged to their father, and left his hand there.

“The valiant, steadfast Aracáno gave up, chose death for himself, but Nelyafinwë and Canafinwë still stand.”

**Author's Note:**

> Aracáno is Fingolfin's mother-name, meaning "High Chieftain".
> 
> I interpret Canafinwë as "commanding Finwë" rather than strong-voiced (though the two interpretations aren't mutually exclusive, I guess).
> 
> Rómelindë is my OC handmaiden of Míriel, who's not too fond of Fingolfin & co (I think there must have been a good number of Fëanorian followers who weren't).


End file.
